


Through Their Eyes

by Ninni



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Weecest, Wincest - Freeform, each chapter is a stand alone drabble, otherPOV!wincest, wincest through others' eyes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-13
Updated: 2018-03-13
Packaged: 2019-03-31 00:24:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 1,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13963311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ninni/pseuds/Ninni
Summary: Sam and Dean's relationship seen from the people around them.Drabbles posted originally on my Tumblr, each chapter is a stand-alone.





	1. Chapter 1

“He’s cute, isn’t he? In that, you know. That kind of devil-may-care kind of way.”

Ellen keeps polishing the glass like nothing has changed, but everything has, because Jo’s voice is everything Ellen’s been afraid of: besotted and a little dreamy,  _those green eyes sure did a number on her_.  

Ellen tells her daughter in measured tones: “Cute ain’t something you can build on, sweetheart.”

Jo grows sharp across the bar top; her gaze dark and unyielding. “You don’t like him.”

It’s not a question,  _thank God_ , because Ellen wouldn’t know what to answer.

She doesn’t know how to tell her smitten golden daughter that the sunny, damaged boy she’s fallen for is already madly in love with someone else. She doesn’t know how to put words to the things she’s seen the Winchester boys do in the dark, the things she’s heard them whisper to each other at night when the lights were all out. She doesn’t know how to ask _: Did you not see him, honey? Did you not see how there’s no room for anyone but his baby-brother, god bless their poor souls, in those devil-may-care eyes of his? Are you that over the moon?_

Ellen puts the glass down, a little too hard, and Jo’s eyes narrow.

“Do yourself a favor, darlin’,” Ellen murmurs. “Give your heart to someone else.”


	2. Chapter 2

“Your  _brother_ , Dean?”

Jessica stares incredulously at the boy standing in the middle of her living room occupying Sam’s personal space like it’s his own; like it’s where he belongs.

Dean’s green gaze is a little wicked; his smirk a little tongue-in-cheek.

She feels akin to Dean, in a way that makes her eyes sting and her stomach churn.

Jessica sees how Sam looks at that boy; like he’s an oasis in a desert, and she feels hollow and cheated when she realizes: He never looked at me like that.

Dean looks her up and down like a lion might look at an antelope,  _Thanks for keeping him warm for me, sweetheart, I’ll take it from here._

When Sam kisses Jessica’s cheek and tells her, ‘ _I’ll be back by Monday,’_  she feels Sam disappearing through her fingers, like smoke.  


	3. Chapter 3

“You can’t,” Bobby says flatly, looking at John’s face, all pinched and dark. “You can’t split them up. You can tell ‘em off, you can punish them but John,  _you can’t split them up_.”

John’s stare is stony. “It’s Sam. I’m sure of it. The way he talks, and looks at Dean, and,  _fuck!_ -“ John swears into his whiskey and slams his fist against the bar top. “The things he makes Dean agree to, it  _ain’t right_. You’ve seen them. You know what I mean, Bobby. Sam needs to go. Dean wouldn’t… Not if he wasn’t being manipulated. Never Dean.”

Bobby watches John’s defeated slouch and pained gaze, and thinks:  _I can’t tell him_.

Can’t tell John how this is his own doing. Can’t tell him that somewhere along the long road of asphalt, blood and motel rooms, his boys simply fell in love. 

Bobby can’t tell John how many times he’s overheard the boys whisper sweet nothings to each other in the darkness, heard the hurried gasps beneath old blankets during the nights John had been too buried in blood and vengeance that he’d failed to notice what his boys were becoming.

Bobby can’t tell John that Dean isn’t the victim; can’t tell him that Dean’s utter devotion to Sam runs far deeper than the beckoning sweeps of Sammy’s sooty eyelashes, because John needs something pure to hold onto: He needs Dean to be the golden soldier led astray, and he needs Sam to be what he’s always been;  _the boy with the demon blood._

“You’re making a mistake,” Bobby tells John grimly. “And the boys will be the ones to pay.”

 _Like they always have_.


	4. Chapter 4

 

Pastor Jim’s voice was very soft and laced with worry when he said: “John, your boys. They are. Well, aren’t they a little too close? I don’t think. I don’t think their relationship is very  _healthy_.”

John stared blankly at him.

Of course he knew.

After all, he was the one who had to pretend not to notice when Dean’s hand rested on Sam’s thigh beneath the diner tables; he was the one who had to come home to a motel room and find the boys rosy cheeked and slightly out of breath. He saw the bruised love bites on Sam’s neck; brand new marks even though Sam had barely left the motel for a week.

He was the one who had to fall asleep to the sound of his boys fucking; the muffled noise of Dean telling Sam to be quiet, because dad could be awake.

Oh, John knew.

He knew there were so many things he hadn’t been able to give them; a home, a base, a mother. There had been times when he hadn’t been able to feed them or clothe them properly; and there had been times when he hadn’t even given them a father.

There was one thing, though. One thing he’d given them.

He’d given them each other, and he knew that they carried each other through this miserable life he’d given them; they made each other smile even when they had nothing to smile about; even if they had to go to bed hungry.

John knew, but he couldn’t,  _wouldn’t_ , put out the only light they had in this pitch-black existence he’d thrown them into.

“John?”

John swallowed. “Don’t you worry about my boys, Jim.” he said lowly. “They’re pulling through.”  


	5. Chapter 5

John doesn’t know why the lady across the counter at the gas station goes a little pale when he says: “If you’d ring it up quickly that’d be great, ‘cause me and my boys are in a bit of a hurry.”

Impatience claws at him when she glances out the window at the Impala. “Those are your sons?” she asks, faintly.

John follows her gaze. Dean’s in the front seat reading a map, Sam’s slouching moodily in the backseat. Nothing is out of the ordinary, and John says tightly: “Yeah. Now, if we could hurry this up?”

Her eyes flicker over to John’s for only a moment, and there’s something in her eyes. Fear perhaps; John sees fear in everyone’s eyes these days, but this just might be  _pity_ , and John glares at her as she hands him his change.

“God bless you all,” is the last thing she says, and John must stop himself from rolling his eyes.

_Fuck, he’s happy to leave these bible belt states, even if it’s for a wendigo in North Dakota._

John doesn’t know that she’s seen his boys before.

He doesn’t know that just the night before, his boys had wandered into the same gas station with Dean’s arm possessively slung over Sam’s shoulder. He doesn’t know that Dean had bought Sam ice-cream; doesn’t know that Dean had kissed Sam’s pink mouth right there in front of her; doesn’t know the smug smirk on Dean’s face as he’d made Sammy blush prettily beneath fluorescent lights.

John doesn’t know that she’d cooed over them and asked how long they’d been together.

John doesn’t know that Sam had gazed dreamily up at Dean and said: “Since forever.”


End file.
